Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
And the thing is—I’m good with it too. I run my thumb along his finger, savoring this stolen, under-the-table touch. “You did. Romance me, that is,” I say, my chest fluttering, my heart beating so fast. From the memory, still fresh and hot, and from the here and now.
This is an unfamiliar rush. Though it’s dangerous, too, this fizzy feeling. But it can’t last, right? So I’m safe. But as he touches me, I hardly feel safe from emotions, and I hardly want to.
I just want this moment to last a little longer. I want to live in this warm, buzzy land some more.
“I think about that night all the time, Layla,” Nick says, and it’s the first time tonight my name on his tongue has sounded inviting. Like the way he used to say my name. I savor the sound of it. “And I’ve been caught up in you for the last week too. I can’t get you out of my head.”
“Same for me,” I say softly, but there’s regret in my tone too.
There’s regret in his as well.
We both know what happens next.
Someone has to say it though. “And now we’ll be…working together on this fundraiser,” I say, “with your son.”
A terribly sad smile comes my way. “Yeah.”
It’s an admission. There is no date tomorrow night. And I can’t ever let David know his dad was my tomorrow night, so I wince, but say the hard thing. “We’ll just pretend Miami never happened.”
He’s quiet for several wistful seconds.
“What night in Miami?” he asks, playing along, but I can tell from his eyes that it hurts him too, this charade.
That night already feels like a distant memory.
When we leave, Nick offers me a ride home. I turn it down, but they both wait till my Lyft arrives, father and son. A former lover and a former boyfriend.
But only one of them will likely stay in my life. The one who’s a friend.
When I reach my building a few minutes later, I say hi to Sylvester, then Grady, then head to my sixth-floor home and turn on all the lights and deadbolt my door. Then I text that one. Telling David it was fun to meet his father.
I don’t text my friend’s father.
He doesn’t text me either.
17
YOU WERE RIGHT
Nick
The next day I’m too busy to think of Layla. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I finish setting up my spacious new place in Gramercy Park, making sure everything meets my specs.
There’s not much for me to do, though, since Finn’s wife insisted I use a friend of hers who’s an interior designer. I didn’t want to argue with Marilyn and piss her off more, so I said yes to using Ginny, even though furniture is not my thing.
Things are not my thing.
But I had nothing to move since I’d rented all my furniture in London, and I do need something to sit on and a bed to crash in.
Ginny found me all that and sent photos to me, and I signed off. Now, she shows me around, telling me all the details about the open-plan kitchen, the couch in the expansive living room, and the minimal artwork on the walls. “I wanted to make sure all eyes were drawn to the natural art,” she says, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room that offer a commanding view of the lower half of Manhattan.
“It’s a stunning view,” I say, and I do my damnedest not to think of bending Layla over the back of the couch, curling her hair into my fist, and fucking her hard as she enjoys the hell out of the natural art view too.
Ginny moves around to the couch, patting the back of it, and I hope she’s not reading my thoughts. “And this is made from organic material in a low-impact fashion,” she says.
But can it handle high-impact nights?
“Thanks, Ginny. Appreciate you sourcing all these things,” I say cordially to the poised designer. She’s a handsome woman, in a news-anchor type of way, with a brunette bob that doesn’t move.
“I’m so glad it’s to your taste, Nick,” she says, and my name sounds awfully personal.
But I try not to read into the way she lingers on one syllable. Maybe she’s just being friendly. Or friendlier, since she’s been a little touchy all along, with her hand on my arm a few times, lots of laughter, and an oh, that’s so funny.
“Everything is great, Ginny,” I say, walking her to the door.
She stands at the exit but doesn’t reach for the handle. She tilts her head, as if waiting for something. Then she laughs and rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it,” she says.
Do what?
I smile, a little confused. “My apologies, Ginny. Did I miss something?”
“My number,” she says. “Would you like it?”